The Name of the Game
by Frakme
Summary: Post HLV. Following the revelation that Mary hasn't left her past behind, John moves back to Baker Street. But nothing between him and Sherlock will be the same again. JohnLock. Implied and non-explicit sexual content. Implied virgin!lock. Also on AO3
1. Chapter 1

John Watson entered the flat, dragging the large suitcase behind him, a box tucked awkwardly under his arm, his backpack digging into his shoulders. He supposed it shouldn't surprise him how relatively few his possessions were when he finally packed them up, to leave M- _God, I can't even bear the sound of her name!_ To leave the little house that had supposedly been a haven of domestic bliss - _wife, steady job, kids -_ only to find out it was all an illusion that everyone else could see through, except him.

Now the illusion had shattered, fragments scattering all around, slicing through the tangled web that _she_ weaved around him. The web that had clouded his vision, dragged him into a stupor of domesticity and banality, of chintz curtains, Smart TV and baby accoutrements from Mamas and Papas. All the things he thought he wanted, that secretly he despised.

It had brought him back full circle to the flat on Baker Street, where a tall, thin man stood by the window, playing a sad melody on the violin, almost a funeral dirge, the notes floating like the dust motes in the dismal afternoon sun that streamed through the windows. The notes seeped into his mind, oddly soothing, like tender fingers smoothing the sharp edges of memory that cut into his very soul.

He dumped his possessions down on the floor and stood watching the other man. breathing in the familiar odours, coffee, formaldehyde, disinfectant and the faintest touch of tobacco smoke.

"Is that everything?"

The smooth baritone brought him out of his daze; he hadn't even realised the sound of the violin had stopped as it reverberated around the room.

"Yeah, think so." He gazed all around, seeing that very little had changed since he was last here, just a week ago, when he shoved his ex-flatmate against the wall and demanded '_Did you know?'_

Even the mugs they had drunk from after he finally calmed down were still there on the coffee table, unwashed and probably getting mouldy. _Did Sherlock enter a form of stasis whenever John left?_

Sherlock merely nodded, his pale green eyes unreadable. Carefully he put the violin back in its case, as carefully as a mother would place a newborn in its crib and John closed his eyes as a lance of pain passed through him, _she wasn't mine!_

Once again he was caught in a maelstrom of memories so heavy, he thought he would drop to the floor. Instead he stumbled over to the sofa and slumped down, trembling as he thought of the baby, her peach soft skin and milky newborn scent, the way her tiny fingers had curled around his, the sweet, snuffling noises she made as she nursed at her mother's breast.

Now she was beyond reach, gone, disappeared along with her mother. Not his, never his. The blood tests didn't lie although _she_ had done her best to hide the truth, lied about her daughter's blood type to try to hide the truth that John couldn't possibly have been her father. But _she_ hadn't been as careful as she thought, a couple of records weren't altered. Though perhaps that had been deliberate, after all, if the baby had needed a transfusion, the wrong type of blood could be fatal, a risk she was not willing to take with her precious daughter. After all, there was no doubt in his mind that the child was well loved by the were gone, vanished, leaving John with an aching wound in his heart, his only consolation was that the baby was too young to remember him and that she and her mother would be able to have a peaceful, trouble free existence.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, tentatively placing a thin hand on John's shoulder, out of his depth in the face of such intense emotion. They sat there in silence, the detective studying the doctor who stared vacantly into space. There were more grey hairs present, more lines of sorrow on his expressive face, mouth drawn in a tight line as he tried to bring his emotions under control. Eventually, he pulled away from the gentle touch, turning to look into the elegant, sharp features of the man who had been prepared to give up everything for him, for it all to be for nothing as the universe was turned inside out; Moriarty's faked return that heralded a successor to the evil genius, then the revelations that John's lying, assassin wife proved that she had been smarter than they'd thought, yet still not smart enough.

"Tell me something, Sherlock," John said, his voice rough with emotion. "Was all of it one giant plan? Your death, her, Moran, the baby-" the words caught in his throat, choking him. He swallowed hard. "Or am I the idiot you always said I was?"

The taller man flinched slightly at the venom in the doctor's voice and shook his head.

"We were both idiots, me more than you," admitted Sherlock. "But it didn't matter, in spite of that we somehow manage to prevail simply because luck happened to be on our side for a change."

He stood up and moved away from sofa, to pick up the skull on the mantlepiece. He turned it over and over in his hands, not looking at it, merely staring out of the window, down at the busy street below, the people going unceasingly, uncaringly about their business, unaware of the storm that had passed.

"I'm going to unpack," said John standing up abruptly, needing something to keep busy, not having the energy for this conversation. He hauled everything upstairs to the second bedroom and wondered again how it came to be that he had ended up back here again.

_Because this is where you were always meant to be_.

* * *

><p>Sherlock listened to the trudging, weighted feet going up the stairs, imagining the doctor's hands carefully putting away his belongings with his typical military neatness, so different from the chaos that dominated the rest of the flat. John's bedroom was not a place that he entered often; certainly not since his return from the dead. There was not enough distractions in it, everything in the room had been deduced at least three times over.<p>

He was unreasonably glad, relieved, that John had agreed to remove back in, despite what had happened, events he was certain John blamed him for, at least in part. He'd given over part of himself to the army doctor, the day that he'd shot a cabbie and saved the detective's life, a part he could not exist without as he had discovered in the two years of lonely exile, then the months after when the two of them had had a Mary shaped wedge between them. She was there to keep them apart, Magnusson wasn't the only one who realised that Sherlock's pressure point was Watson, that he couldn't operate at optimum without the solidness of the older man providing a reflector for younger's genius.

Still, it had taken the wedding, the discovery of a murder in their midst for him to make the greatest, most devastating deduction; that he had allowed himself to be blinded by the very sentiment that Mycroft had warned him about. His love for John Watson, the realisation that there was someone in the world whose welfare he could put unreservedly ahead of his own.

It was such a revelation that it took time to assimilate it, to figure out what exactly it meant. Then there was the realisation that he'd been too late, years too late, John had moved on to Mary and he couldn't bring himself to destroy the new peace that John had found, unaware at that time at just how fragile a foundation on which that peace had been built.

Lies, within lies. Mary was even cleverer than he thought, no wonder he liked her. Ironically she seemed the only acceptable match for his John, the other women who tried to snag themselves an army doctor had been dismissed, despised as weak minded fools from out of the soap operas that Mrs Hudson was addicted to.

Mary had proved to be more than a match for him, leaving him subtle clues as to her real intentions. She had them all fooled, John most of all, leading them on a merry chase until she staged her attempted assassination of Magnusson. She'd gambled that John would not want to hear about her past and she won, knowing as she watched him throw the memory stick into the fire, that what was on the stick was not only her past, but her present and her future.

She even fooled them into believing she hadn't shot Sherlock to kill, that had been a gamble she had lost, though it had all worked out in her advantage in the end. She'd also seen through Sherlock at the wedding, knowing that he would keep silent rather than risk his friendship with her husband again, a decision he came to bitterly regret.

The pregnancy was a stroke of genius; she deliberately dropped the clues in front of Sherlock, knowing he would put them together far faster than John would. John, who being a doctor, was scrupulously careful about contraception. In the end she had gone elsewhere to get herself actually pregnant, the real father someone of no real consequence to her or her child, though carefully chosen all the same. Just not carefully enough.

He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on as he heard John come down the stairs. He found two clean mugs _wash up? Or just buy some more?_ put tea bags in each of them, sugar in his own - _1977 Queen's silver jubilee_ - none in John's - _picture of a dolphin, a present from Molly when she visited the Sealife Centre in Blackpool a few months back_ - then as John sat down, he added the hot water carefully to the cups, watching the steam rising upwards, trying to pick out shapes in the twisting vapour. He stirred the mugs, letting the tea steep before extracting the bags from the golden hued liquid. He didn't notice at first John getting up to fetch the milk from the fridge, until he turned to find him at his elbow.

"You always put too much milk in mine," John said softly as he unscrewed the lid and added a splash to his own and a more generous one to Sherlock's. Mugs in hand, milk placed back in the fridge - _storage for foods to be kept at less than five degrees celsius, not heads or lungs or toes, Sherlock, for Christ sake! - _they sat back at the kitchen table, drinking their tea, the atmosphere in the flat dismal, like days of endless drizzle.

"I'm back to work at the clinic on Monday," said John, breaking the silence. "They've been good about letting me have these few days off. I told them… I told them that she's gone with the baby. Irreconcilable differences. She's gone to live with her family. I didn't know what else to say. I can't even talk to them about the baby. What's worst do you think? Them knowing she cuckolded me or them thinking I abandoned my own child?"

For once, Sherlock remained quiet, perhaps realising that they were picking their way through a minefield, blindfolded. None of his deductions would do John any good now. He'd made too many already.

There was a curious, heavy feeling in his stomach, a tightness in his throat when he looked at John, who seemed colourless as he sipped his brew. Hair going more grey, skin pale, clothes unkempt, he'd been sleeping in them, at least attempting to sleep, he'd probably had no more than two to three hours a night judging by the dark smudges under his eyes.

"Answer me one thing and I want the truth. Was I just a pawn to you?"

"NO!" the word fairly exploded from the detective's mouth. "Never to me. You are my friend, my blogger, my… you are necessary to me, John. Moran knew that, went to such lengths to place Mary in your path. It wasn't a coincidence that you met her, no more than it was a coincidence she was friends with Janine."

"Did Moran know you were alive before I did?"

Sherlock's pale green eyes met John's dark blue ones. He nodded slowly.

"The problem when you start to dismantle an operation as large as Moriarty's, is that visible holes begin to appear. No matter how careful Mycroft was at covering my tracks, eventually the negative space I left behind became more apparent. Rumours of my existence began to surface."

"Greg told me Anderson was convinced you weren't dead, though he only told me afterwards. He didn't really believe him and I guess he was trying to protect me. Seems like he was protecting me from the wrong person."

"You were dying, John," said Sherlock. "For all the wrong reasons, you can at least say that Mary saved you."

John let out a bitter laugh.

"She reminded me of you, you know that? I think she deliberately shaped her personality based on you. It sometimes felt with her that you hadn't really gone."

John sighed heavily and idly swirled his mug. Sherlock recollected the last meeting between the three of them, Mary as unremorseful as ever, clinging to her child as she flashed her beautiful eyes at her husband and his friend.

_"You thought you were so clever, Holmes," she says, her voice quiet yet filled with poison. "Playing at being Batman, leaving a trail of death behind you." John stifles a hysterical giggle as his head spins, detachedly realising the pop culture reference has gone over Sherlock's head. He is ricocheting between fury, despair and an overwhelming grief as his carefully created world collapses around him, leaving him married to a woman he doesn't know and a daughter he didn't father. O positive. Not possible from an AB negative father._

_"It's over, Mary," says Sherlock, his voice deep and level, like granite. "I know everything now. Moran-"_

_With the baby held securely in a Moby wrap to her chest, she points the gun firmly at both of them. The baby sleeps peacefully, unaware of the drama unfolding around her._

_"He'll kill me," she says, never once taking her eyes off Sherlock. "He'll kill my baby."_

_"We can help protect you and the baby. Put the gun down."_  
><em>Mary then looks at John, but John keeps his eyes on the gun, refusing to meet her eyes. He struggles to speak through the tightness in his throat.<em>

_"Everything was a lie, wasn't it? You meant for Sherlock to find out about your past. At least the one you wanted him to know about it."_

_She nods slowly and looks at him with pity._

_"Moran was convinced Holmes would return," she says. "He needed to ensure that he would come back to you, John. Then we'd use you as leverage."_

_"What do you want from me?" he replies._

_"Moran will be here soon," she says. "I'm merely to keep you here until he does."_

_John's face twists into an expression of contempt._

_"How do you know he won't kill you and the baby anyway? Witnesses to his execution of Sherlock Holmes?"_

_"He won't," she says. "He has an escape route planned for the both of us." Yet there is a note of uncertainty in her voice._

_Sherlock stands still and calm, calmer than anyone had the right to be, in their position. John glances at him and Sherlock can see him wondering if it was too much to ask for one more miracle. John stares at Mary again, confusion and hurt apparent on his face. He watches as her three week old baby stirs slightly in the wrap._

_The reason for the calm becomes apparent as in a burst of sound and movement, the house is stormed, Mary shoots at Sherlock but misses, when someone behind her grabs her arm. Instinctively, John moves towards her, wanting to protect the baby, an innocent. He pulls Mary close to him, forcing her to drop the gun._

_Two nondescript men gently pull Mary from his arms, another picking up the gun. He turns to a figure walking through the shattered front door._

_"She's not your concern now," says Mycroft. "Leave her be, John."_  
><em>"You're late, Brother," snipes Sherlock.<em>

_"You had the situation well under control. And you'll be pleased to know we also have Sebastian Moran in custody, thanks to you."_  
><em>John stumbles away and falls into a chair, his face pale with shock. He stays sat there while a female operative comes and leads Mary and her baby gently away. Mycroft directs his people to clean up and they leave. Before he goes he turns to the detective and the doctor.<em>

_"You needn't be concerned about Mary and the baby. They will be held in protective custody. If she cooperates she will be allowed to live her life in witness protection with her daughter. Perhaps I will find some use for her, that will keep her out of trouble."_

_He leaves and the house is once again quiet and empty._

_"John," says Sherlock, sounding uncertain. "Do you want to come back to Baker Street?"_

_The doctor shook his head._

_"No, I need…" He looked up at the tall man helplessly. Sherlock nods, up to now he had been in charge of the situation, from the moment John had stumbled up to the flat that morning to tell him what he'd discovered about the baby, Mary's confession of infidelity, to find out that Sherlock had finally put the final links into place and connected Mary to Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's successor. Now he flounders in the face of John's agony._

A week later, he was still floundering. John had not spoken to him until the previous evening, when he'd rung and asked him if he could move back in to Baker Street. Sherlock didn't even hesitate to say 'yes'. He hardly slept at all last night, anticipating the arrival of his closest friend, selfishly glad to have him back, to have him safe. He'd been terrified, he'd admitted to himself, when he discovered, with his brother's help, the depths of Mary's deception, the terrible danger John had been in, sleeping with the woman who had orders to be prepared to deliver Sherlock to Moran, who was to be his executioner.

Moran had gotten careless, as he'd gotten closer to his target, the tighter he wove his web, the more visible it became. But knowing what was at stake, he was forced to turn to Mycroft for help, eventually snaring Moran in the trap that the two brothers had laid out for him.

He hated being even more in his brother's debt but John was worth the price. What was more, he knew John would never forgive him if any harm had come to Mary or her little baby.

"Is it all over now?" asked John wearily as he picked up the now empty mugs and started to fill the sink with hot water. There were piles of dirty dishes making a sad, little mountain on the side and he worked mechanically to wash them.

"Yes, John." Sherlock's voice was barely audible above the clink of china and stainless steel, the splashing of water. "Mary cooperated fully with Mycroft's people. And Moran is dead. Killed while attempting to escape."

"Convenient," remarked John.

"He would've killed you. I'm convinced he would've killed Mary and the baby. He would've saved me until last. Perhaps made it look like I'd killed the three of you and turned the gun on myself."

John stopped momentarily, as he shivered. He finished the rest of the dishes, emptied the sink, dried his hands on a towel. He stared at his hands, prune like from the water, like an old man's hands.

"I want proof, Sherlock. Proof that Mary and the baby are okay."

"I'll ask Mycroft to send you some," said Sherlock. "Do you still love her?"

John looked up at Sherlock, not bothering to hide his pain.

"I loved someone who didn't exist," he said. "Nothing about her was real. Now I'm wondering if I can tell the truth from fantasy any more."

Listlessly he made his way to the sitting room and slumped into his arm chair. Sherlock followed him, unable to figure out what to say to take the look of defeat off John's face.

He picked up his violin, began to play, a soft sweet melody, Brahms. There was no response from the armchair, no censure or sounds of distress, so he carried on playing, standing at the window, which was slightly open, the thin, slurring notes wending their way around the room, down to the darkened streets, the occasional passerby looking up, drawn by the siren's song. He segued from Brahms, to Tchaikovsky, before moving on to his own compositions.

It seemed as though he played for hours, not moving from the spot, uncaring of his body's demands. Eventually his fingers grew numb so he stopped. He put the violin down and turned to John, asleep in his arm chair, his face wet with tears.

Sherlock fetched a blanket and placed it over him, put a cushion under his neck when he saw it was an awkward angle, then lay down on the sofa, looking at him.

_John, John, _his mind whispered. At times, he will be angry, he will rage, he will storm out but he will come back, Sherlock decided. Eventually equilibrium will be established and they'd go back to what they had been, before Moriarty, before the Fall, before lies within deceptions within artifice.

But he knew it wouldn't be the same any more. Not now he had the Deduction. Now he knew he loved John.


	2. Chapter 2

At first, John didn't know where he was when he woke up. Then as he forced his eyes open, in the dim pre-dawn light of the room, memories came flooding back. He got up and stretched, the blanket he hadn't even remembered being put over him sliding from his lap. He glanced over at the sofa and to his surprise, Sherlock was lying there asleep, one arm across his face, the other trailing down to the floor. He stepped over to look at him, feeling a wave of protectiveness for the younger man, his cupid bow slightly parted. He felt the urge to touch the curly, tumbled locks, an urge he ruthlessly suppressed.

He walked quietly across the room into the kitchen, sticking the kettle on before going to use the lav. When he came back, he got a mug, dumped a teabag in and poured in the hot water. Idly, he waved his hand through the steam from the mug, then turned when he heard movement behind him.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, observing him quietly.

"Did I wake you?" asked John gently.

"Probably, but it doesn't matter." Sherlock looked far too alert for this time in the morning, John grimaced as the clock on the microwave indicated it wasn't even six am. He got an extra mug and made another tea for Sherlock, silently blessing Mrs Hudson when he found milk in the fridge. Especially considering the petri dishes of mouldy toes and fingertips in there. No actual food, of course. There were also two Winchesters, one of potassium permanganate and another of propyl acetate. The chemicals cabinet that John had insisted Sherlock purchased some time ago now contained a collection of random shoes and boots.

"I guess I'll go shopping in a bit," he said as he passed Sherlock his tea.

"No need, John, there's an online shop coming in a couple of hours. From Ocado. Mycroft set me up an account."

John blinked. Sherlock online shopping?

"He did it a few weeks ago after I got myself banned from Tesco."

John shook his head and sat at the table.

"I'm not even going to ask."

"Probably wise, John. I've no need of another reason for you to be angry at me."  
>"I'm not angry at you!"<p>

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow as he sat down at the table, staring intently at the smaller man.

The silence weighed oppressively in the room, John fought the urge to scream but instead managed to remain calm.

"Do you have plans today?" he asked.

"I have a case. Small pharmaceutical company. Their clinical lead was found dead last night, killed by a drug he developed. Locked room murder, I suspect Chinese Triad involvement. Could be dangerous."

John smiled, for the first time in just over a week.

"I'll get my coat."

* * *

><p>Three days later, the evidence to take down a local Triad gang had been given to the police, the wife of the dead man had been implicated in his murder (she was having an affair with the head statistician of the company, who had been taking backhanders in order to ensure certain drug trials didn't succeed), John and Sherlock were riding an adrenalin rush.<p>

After hanging up his coat and scarf, Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa.

"Chinese, Sherlock?" asked John with a grin.

The detective nodded and listened as John placed their usual order. He smiled inwardly, satisfied at the recent turn of events. He suppose he shouldn't be, he ought to try to be empathic; after all two weeks ago, John had been happily married with a new baby daughter, only to have it all ripped away from him. Selfishly though, he was glad to have John back here, back by his side, at his beck and call. The status quo had been returned as far as he was concerned. While on the case, he'd seen the old John Watson, energised, basking in the glow of Sherlock's rapier mind, effervescent with praise for every deduction that brought all the pieces together, not the sad shadow of the man he'd been in the wake of Sherlock's 'suicide' and Mary's final betrayal.

John sat in his armchair with his laptop and began typing away, in the irritating two-fingered way he always did and the staccato sound of it was soothing, as Sherlock tried to deduce what he was typing by the sound of the keys. He glanced over to the armchair and John looked up.

"I'm writing up the case… I was thinking I might start blogging again."

"Oh."

John frowned, his lips pursing.

"Do you not want me to?"

"Hadn't really thought about it. You can do as you wish, of course."

He noticed John looked slightly hurt by his seeming indifference. Should he tell him that he read and re-read his blog while he was away? That it had been a kind of a penance, knowing that John was suffering, yet still faithful to him? He elected to say nothing and instead checked the emails on his 'phone for any new cases. There was nothing, at least none of any interest to him. Why should he care if some woman with more money than sense had lost her little poodle, Fifi?

The doorbell rang and John got up, retrieving his wallet from the pocket of his jacket before proceeding down the stairs. He was back shortly, the smell of soy, lemongrass, ginger and chicken heralding the arrival of their dinner. Sherlock got up and followed John into the kitchen, as he bustled about getting plates and cutlery. They sat as John laid everything on the table and started serving himself a generous portion. Sherlock nearly smiled, he knew John often put more than he could eat on his own plate, knowing Sherlock tended to steal off the doctor's plate. A way to get him to eat, by making a game of it. John often tried to make a game of getting Sherlock to do things that he didn't want to do, things that John thought he ought to do, like eating, sleeping and actually putting clothes on when clients called around. Dull, yet he could hardly refuse John in his insistence on these sort of things.

Already John had made noises about Sherlock looking like a starving waif and told him that he was determined to feed him up to a fighting weight. As much as he openly deplored the doctor's mollycoddling, he clung to it secretly, like a security blanket. Knowing that there was one person in the world who truly cared for him, yet asked for nothing in return was a balm for his restless soul. Mycroft cared, he knew but it was more about doing his fraternal duty and trying to keep the worst of Sherlock's excesses from interfering too much from his own well ordered life.

John Watson had been a blessing for both brothers, for Mycroft, weary of being his brother's keeper, knew that his baby brother would be safe in the hands of the honest, faithful army doctor, allowing him to step back, giving him freedom from having to constantly nursemaid an always resentful, never grateful, antagonistic younger sibling, who was always at risk from falling into addiction again.

Sherlock himself had revelled in the freedom from Holmes Major's constant interference, snideness and, worst of all, pity. That was what galled him the most, knowing Mycroft thought that Sherlock had wasted his gifts. Did he feel relieved when he tried to send him to Eastern Europe in the wake of the Magnusson murder? Did he even feel the slightest bit of guilt at sentencing his brother to commit suicide for real? John had known nothing of this and neither Holmes chose to disabuse him of the assumption that Sherlock would simply move to another mission. John had grieved already too much for him.

"Sherlock?"

The detective started, realising that John had called his name a couple of times and was not looking at him with concern.

"John," he said, then swallowed convulsively. "What?"  
>John looked at him searchingly, before gesturing with a fork at the food.<p>

"Eat, please. Otherwise I'm telling Molly no more providing body parts."

"She won't listen to you."

John smiled grimly.

"Don't bet on it."

Sherlock ate.

* * *

><p><em>Three Months Later<em>

"Lestrade texted me. He wants us down at the Yard. New evidence linking a cold case with a new one."

"Oh?" John perked up a little.

"A double homicide, about ten years ago. Husband and wife. A family friend was charged but released due to lack of evidence. He's now dead and it looks like he was killed with the same kind of weapon as the husband and wife."

The doctor nodded and picked up the cups, placing them in the sink.

They both went into the rooms to dress into fresh clothes and within twenty minutes, they were heading to the New Scotland Yard, in silence.

As they entered CID, Lestrade came over to greet them, giving John a sympathetic look.

"Alright, mate? I heard about what-"

"Don't want to talk about it, Greg, if that's alright by you."

"Sure, sure." The Detective Inspector nodded, looking uncomfortable. He directed the two men to his office and they were soon looking over a series of photos, one set showing the original murder, the couple had been killed with a claw hammer in their own home, the family friend, Derek Trimmer, had also been dispatched in his home, with a similar weapon.

"Was he guilty?" asked John.

"I didn't handle the case, myself. It was Dimmock. He seemed pretty convinced, but all the evidence was circumstantial and the CPS rejected the case." Lestrade shook his head in disgust. He'd seen Trimmer once or twice and felt there was something false about the man's display of grief.

Sherlock picked up one of the photos, that of the murdered couple, Deborah and Martyn Bale. Taking out his magnifier he examined the photo closely. He appeared to be examining the photos on the mantlepiece in the background.

"They had two children, a boy and a girl. The boy was elder, at Southampton University and the daughter was still at the local comprehensive. Where were the children at the time of the killings and where are they now?"

John looked at the photo in amazement, then glanced at Lestrade who nodded slowly.

"Yeah, Terry, the boy was eighteen at the time, studying Physics and his sister Julie was sixteen. She was at a friend's sleepover party the night of the murder and Terry was at University."  
>"And now?"<p>

Lestrade looked grave.

"Julie committed suicide about six years ago, drug overdose. She was the one to find her parents after they were killed, when she returned home the next day. She never really got over the shock. Terry dropped out of University and seems to have dropped out of sight. I've already checked with other relatives of the Bales, but Terry hasn't been in touch with any of them since his sister's funeral."

Sherlock frowned.

"You think Terry Bale is the murderer. Too obvious. Someone else did this. Were there any other suspects?"

Lestrade shook his head.

"But maybe he knows something?" suggested John. "Have you found Terry Bale?"

"Not as yet, but we're looking for him," said Greg. "I was hoping you could take a look at the original case files, see if you could find something more concrete to implicate Trimmer in the Bales' murder, that would lead us to his killer."

Sherlock nodded.

"Give them to me and room to work in," he said, holding out his hand imperiously.

* * *

><p>He and John spent the next three days, scouring through evidence, witness testimonies, interviews with friends and family. Eventually, they tracked down Trimmer's wife who, after the murder, had moved to a remote Scottish island to start anew, though she was currently staying with her sister in London, who had just had an operation on her pelvis and needed help around the house.<p>

She had provided an alibi for her husband and steadfastly defended him. Yet two years after the Bales' murder, they had divorced.

She showed absolutely no grief at being informed of his death. It didn't take long to find the evidence that not only had Trimmer been murdered by his ex-wife and not Terry Bale, but the wife had also committed the murder of the Bales. She had discovered Trimmer had been having an affair with Julie Bale. Instead of exposing the affair to Julie's parents, she killed them.

They'd also found Terry Bale; the young man was relieved and astounded that his parents' killer had finally be caught and with Sherlock's help they would have enough evidence to please the CPS.

"You were brilliant," said John, as they sat on the sofa. "Bloody brilliant. I don't think anyone on the original case even thought to suspect Helen Trimmer!"

"If the pathologists had done their job properly, they would have realised the murders were obviously committed by a woman."

John smiled, a genuine smile, the first one Sherlock had seen in a long time. He felt warm from it, as if John's smile was the summer sun.

"Sherlock what are you doing?" John asked softly. Sherlock was aware that he was touching John's face. He snatched his hand away, as if burnt then got up abruptly. He picked up his bow, and started rosining it with long, slow strokes. He stared out of the window as he did so, avoiding John's eyes.

He heard John sigh and moved into the kitchen, the kettle being turned on. He then pick up a lint free cloth and gently wiped down the bow. Picking up his violin, he began to play, closing his eyes and allowing the notes to drift out of him, speaking the words that he couldn't say.

John bustled about making tea but was captured by the strains of the violin, the music sweet and sad, the notes speaking of longing, of despair. He closed his eyes and listened trying to figure out what Sherlock was trying to tell him. In the three months since he'd been back, they had settled into the old routine, with John following Sherlock blindly on his cases and taking care of all the routine minutiae that Sherlock couldn't be bothered with; paying the bills, washing up, the shopping. Soothing the ruffled feathers of those Sherlock has offended by his bluntness and inability to empathise.

He'd even found a new job, a different clinic where no one knew him. He'd rebuffed a couple overtures from colleagues, very attractive ones but the thought of becoming emotionally involved with someone else seemed tiresome. Besides, he knew they would always come second to Sherlock, the sun in whose orbit he was firmly captured.

He brought the tea quietly into the sitting room, trying not to disturb the musician. His breath caught as he saw the look of vulnerability on Sherlock's face, his eyes unfocused as he was absorbed by the music, the violin an extension of himself.

He placed the mugs on the table and sat in his chair. The light of the setting sun came through the window, casting a halo about Sherlock's head, his wayward curls catching the light. He was beautiful, ethereally beautiful. Michelangelo would sell his soul to paint such a face. John laughed inwardly at his fanciful notions, he never used to be one for poetry, yet the voice of the violin coaxed thoughts of beauty, light and colour from out of his weary soul.

Before he knew it, he was standing behind Sherlock, easing his arms around his waist, resting his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder blade. He smelled of the recent rain, the rosin and the faintest scent of cigarettes.

When did this start to feel so right, he wondered as he rubbed his cheek on the detective's back, feeling the silk of his shirt on his skin, the heat of the flesh beneath it. Had it always been coming to this point? He'd felt a strong attraction to Sherlock not long after he met him, embarrassed when he was thoroughly rebuffed - _you should know I consider myself married to my work -_ but unable to stay away. When he thought he was witnessing Sherlock's death, he had felt a sense of hopelessness he'd never felt since he thought he was going to bleed out on the Afghan sands.

The weeks afterwards were filled with a terrible grief he couldn't even understand, guilt that he had somehow failed to save his friend and an emptiness that not even Mary was completely able to fill.

He wasn't aware at first that Sherlock had put down the violin until he was turning in his arms.

Sherlock looked down on him, his iridescent green eyes filled with a questioning look. It was not the first time he had stood so close to the taller man, who lacked the concept of personal space, but he'd initiated the closeness and that made all the difference.

John swallowed nervously but didn't pull away, his hands resting lightly on Sherlock's hips. The detective own hands came up to rest on the doctor's shoulders.

"You know what kind of man I am," said Sherlock. "Yet you've stood by me, believed in me when no one else would. And I display not a whit of gratitude for your loyalty."  
>John shrugged.<p>

"You know what I am as well. You knew from the very first moment you saw me. From the moment I met you, I knew… I knew that everything would be different. That my place was here with you. I don't need your gratitude, Sherlock. I just need to be here with you. I need you to promise me…"

"What, John?" The baritone rumble was so soft.

"That you'll never leave me again."

That vulnerable look came over Sherlock's face once more.

"I won't do that again… I won't put you through it again. I was wrong, I miscalculated, I-"  
>"I know why you did it. I can't say I didn't hate what you did to me, but I understand you felt you had no other choice. It really doesn't matter now, all that matters is we're together and we have the Work."<p>

Sherlock bent his head so his forehead touched John's. John could feel the warmth of his breath on his face. Abruptly, though he stepped back and the indifferent mask slipped back over his face.

"You haven't eaten since this morning, when Lestrade sent out for sandwiches," he stated. "We'll go to Angelo's. I haven't been there for a while."  
>"Sure, why not," said John, though he was caught off guard by the odd change in attitude.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

At the restaurant, Angelo practically bounced over to them.

"Sherlock! It has been too long, since you come see me! And here's your Doctor Watson! Are you back now? Sherlock has been so down without you, you should never have left him!" The genial Italian looked reproachfully at John, who looked uncomfortable.

"Well, umm, it's not like that," he said, then stopped not sure he could explain it. Besides, did it really matter that much if people assumed if they were couple? They were effectively, the only thing that was missing was the romance and the sex.

As he gazed at Sherlock over the candle Angelo had put on the table and observed the other couples in the restaurant, he nearly laughed. Nope, all that was missing was the sex.

They ordered, rigatoni puttanesca for John and penne arrabiata for Sherlock. Angelo had already placed a bottle of Sherlock's favourite wine on the table.

They ate a strangely silent meal, Sherlock seeming lost in thought, though occasionally staring at John with an intensity that made him uncomfortable.

They elected to skip dessert, Angelo refusing to give them the bill as usual and they walked home.

Entering the flat and hanging up their coats, John rubbed his hands together nervously.

"Well, yeah, going to bed now, alright? See you in the morning." He turned to go up the stairs to his bedroom.

"Good night, John," said Sherlock quietly.

_He dreams of the Fall again. He hasn't had that dream in months. He is standing, watching the rooftop of St Bart's, watching Sherlock spreading his arms out like a bird about to take flight. John is frozen in place, his feet glued to the floor as in slow motion Sherlock topples over the rooftop and drifts down like a feather, his coat fluttering in the breeze. But he doesn't hit the ground, he turns into a swan, purest black, flying towards the sun._

_He can hear manic laughter as the swan flies closer, feathers catching fire. John can't do anything but watch as the swan is burnt up. Something falls from the sky and John can move, he runs to catch it. A diamond in the shape of a heart. He squeezes it in his hand and oh God it burns! the sharp edges cut his skin, the blood pouring like a waterfall, dripping into a puddle by his feet, where lay the body of his dead friend, the unseeing eyes staring upwards, blood from his shattered skull mingling with John's own. He begins to scream._

"John, John!" The doctor and former army medic tried to lash out at whoever had hold of him but he was held in an iron grip, a heavy weight on his chest, two strong hands pinning his wrists. His heart was threatening to break out of his chest as he opened his eyes to see Sherlock, dressed in pyjama pants and a t-shirt, pinning him to the bed.

"You were screaming," said Sherlock matter of factly. "You were having a nightmare." He cautiously released John's wrists but remained on him.

John wiped his eyes, aware he was soaked in sweat.

"Yeah, no shit. And no I don't want to talk about it. Now are you going to get off me?"

Sherlock did so, his eyes hooded.

John sat up, now completely wide awake. He sighed and looked at his flatmate.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I was awake."

John got out of the bed and picked up his dressing gown. He smiled wanly at Sherlock.

"Thanks. I guess I'll go make a cuppa." He slung on his dressing gown and they went downstairs. He stopped in the bathroom to wash his face before coming out to find Sherlock already making the tea. He looked at the time on the microwave: 3.15am.

"Fuck," he said. Sherlock passed him his tea. "Ta, love," he said absently, then he realised what he just said. Sherlock just looks at him, with a small smile playing on his lips.

Now it was John's turn to look vulnerable. He was still shaken from the dream he had, as if the thin skin over his emotions had been ripped away.

Sherlock stepped up to him, lifted a hand and ran his thumb over John's lips, a wondering expression on his face. John let out a soft sigh, all thoughts of tea forgotten. Unthinking he reached up to run a hand through Sherlock's curls, letting them spring through his fingers. Sherlock traced his fingers over his face then moved in closer and John wondered how soft that cupid bow would feel on his own mouth.

Very soft, like silk, he thought as the dream became reality, their lips meeting for the first time, gently, cautiously, shyly at first then growing bolder. They clutched at each other as if they were standing on a precipice, relying on each other to stop themselves from falling.

They moved apart, John looking shaken and Sherlock wide eyed.

"Sherlock, what-" John didn't even know what to say.

"We've taken the final step," the detective said. "Endgame." He tugged gently on John's arm. "Let's go to back to bed." He led the speechless doctor to his bedroom before getting into bed, lifting the sheets in invitation. John climbed in, facing the detective.

"Sleep," Sherlock said. "We'll talk in the morning."

They shared another shy kiss before both closing their eyes and drifting off to sleep, holding hands.

* * *

><p>The next morning, John woke up alone in Sherlock's bed. He swore when he looked at the alarm clock; it had gone eight am and he was due at the clinic at nine am; he'd promised he would be in as they would be short staffed today. He flung himself out of bed and dashed upstairs to get his clothes, not even bothering to look for Sherlock. He reckoned he had time enough for a quick shower before he had to run out to catch the bus. He was in and out of the shower in ten minutes, one towel wrapped around his hips, the other frantically scrubbing at his damp hair. Looking in the mirror he figured he could probably get away with not shaving so got on with brushing his teeth.<p>

He dressed quickly, still damp and nearly ran into Sherlock as he emerged from the bathroom.

"Sorry, late for work," he said, suddenly feeling awkward.

"There's coffee on the kitchen table," said Sherlock, who then disappeared into the bedroom. John went into the kitchen, gratitude warring with dismay. The coffee was pretty much how he liked it and he swallowed it down while looking for his shoes, wallet and 'phone.

When he was ready, he hesitated at the door to Sherlock's bedroom.

"I'll see you later," he shouted through the door before leaving.

* * *

><p>Thankfully he was busy, the clinic was fully booked with a few emergency appointments as well. So he didn't get a chance to really dwell on what had happened the previous night. He periodically checked his mobile but there was no texts from Sherlock, just one from Harry, giving him her new number and address; she was moving in with her girlfriend, Kelly.<p>

On his way home he felt anxious, did Sherlock have regrets about what happened between them? Could they just forget it and go back to being flatmates and best friends?

On impulse, he got off the bus a stop early, to give him a bit more time to think and also to stop at the local Tesco Express. He had a feeling beer would be needed. He picked up a few ales on a four for five quid deal and a bottle of wine he knew his flatmate liked. He also picked up a lasagne for two as well.

As he went through the self scan, he smiled humourlessly. Anyone would think he was planning a romantic night in.

When he got home, Sherlock was at on the sofa, typing away on his laptop. He was dressed, in suit trousers and the purple shirt that John had always liked on him.

"Alright, Sherlock?" he asked as put the shopping on the table.

"Fine. Just typing up my last experiment."

"Have you been out?" asked John, as he opened the fridge to put the ales in. "Yeah, I'm guessing you've been to see Molly." He looked in distaste at the tray of artfully arranged slices of human lung. Some of them looked liked they'd come from smokers.

"Is this an attempt to stick to your no smoking resolve?"

"Considering the numerous brushes with death I've had I think smoking is the least of my worries. Have you brought dinner?"

John shook his head in disbelief.

"Microwave lasagne. That okay?"

"Yes. I see you brought wine. You want to talk." Sherlock stated flatly.

John hesitated, then opened the microwave, relieved to find it clean. He put the lasagne in, check the instructions and set the microwave up to heat it. He didn't think he needed to respond to Sherlock's deduction.

He then cleared the table, put out cutlery and wine glasses and opened the wine.

The detective came over to join him when he called him over and poured the wine as John dished up.

They ate quietly, Sherlock putting away perhaps a third of his, gazing at John over his wine glass.

"You're worried that I regret last night," he said. "That it was a moment of madness. You thought I would delete it."

"You haven't," said John. "But yeah, guess that's it."

"I wouldn't delete anything connected to you. No matter how... painful."

John frowned.

"Do you think I regret it?"

"You've just come out of a difficult relationship. Two days ago, you received the paperwork confirming your annulment from the woman you knew as Mary Morstan. I believe a rebound relationship is common in these circumstances."

"I'm not on the rebound!" John protested. He took a swallow of his wine with a trembling hand, slamming the glass back down on the table. "I... How I feel about you, it's nothing new. Are you regretting it? Or is this just an experiment?"

Sherlock actually looked hurt, making John feel like an utter shit.

"Sorry," he said. He closed his eyes, rubbing his face, suddenly feeling weary.

"John," the detective said gently. "I am no good when it comes to sentiment. I can never find the right things to say. I can't articulate emotions because I never had any use for them before." He got up and went into the bedroom. He came back holding in hands a filthy looking woollen jumper. John stood up and looked at it, confused, then he realised it was one of his. He'd assumed he'd misplaced it when he moved out of Baker Street. But as he took it off Sherlock, he realised that was not the case.

The jumper, one of the oatmeal cable knit ones he favoured, was covered in various stains; mud, grease and what looked suspiciously like dried blood. Comprehension dawned as he looked up into Sherlock's face, seeing the pain in the pale green eyes he would never show any one else.

"You took this, didn't you, when you... When you left."

Sherlock slowly nodded.

"To remind me why I had to go. And then to keep me going."

John stared at him in shock. His hands involuntarily squeezed the jumper in his hands. Looking at he was reminded of some of the soldiers he'd deployed with, some of whom slept with a piece of their wives' or girlfriends' clothing close to them.

For Sherlock, he suspected the jumper had been a memento mori, a hairshirt. Examining the fabric, he found several tears. Did he wear it when...

Suddenly he felt a lump in his throat and a burning in his eyes. All he'd focused on was how he had suffered believing his best friend had killed himself. He didn't once allow himself to think what Sherlock had gone through.

"God, Sherlock, I am sorry," he said. "I've been such a bastard to you."

"Some would say I deserved it." The detective's voice was flat.

Yes, John had felt abandoned when he thought Sherlock was dead. But he'd moved on. And when Sherlock came back, he'd virtually flaunted his relationship in his face, had punished Sherlock with words and deeds yet the detective had stayed with him. Planned his fucking wedding, for crying out loud! Helped saved the life of his friend then killed a man to preserve his wife's lies because he thought it would make John happy. The same wife who had tried to kill him.

He moved over to the bin, opened it and put the jumper in it. Sherlock made no move to stop him.

"We can't undo any of it," said John. "All we've suffered, everything we've fucked up. We need to start afresh. Just the two of us."

"You and me against the world?" asked Sherlock, with the ghost of a smile.

"Yeah, just that."

Then John reached up with both hands, pulled the detective's head down and kissed him.

Heat, passion, forgiveness, joy. All of that went into the kiss. They kissed as if the world was ending, like they would be forever torn apart. The words they couldn't speak were written on their lips and their tongues.

Greedy hands clutched and pulled at dark curly locks and short greyish blond hair, before moving downwards. Their feet took them to the bedroom before they even realised it. The bed beckoned them both, cotton sheets promising them a refuge from the world outside.

Clothes were parted from skin, the thought of any barrier between them appalling. When they were naked, Sherlock studied carefully with fingers, lips and tongue the gunshot scar on the doctor's shoulder, comparing it to his own smaller wound.

In turn, John examined Sherlock's scars, touching each and every one, angry at the imperfections marking the alabaster skin, whispering words of forgiveness into each and every one.

It seemed like hours they'd spent touching and tasting each other. It was less a sexual experience as it was a learning one.

John hadn't ever felt so intimately unwrapped by a lover before. A sudden thought occurred to him, a reminder of Irene and Mycroft's taunts.

"Sherlock," he said, as the detective was nuzzling his way up John's left hip. "You have done this before?"

The detective's eyebrows knitted in a frown.

"Does it matter? It's new and interesting with you. Before, it was boring. Merely physical data. Hardly worth the mess and effort."

"So you've had sex before, then."

"Yes," said Sherlock, "After a fashion. I suppose some would consider me a virgin, depending on how you define it. I have experienced orgasm with others. I have never been penetrated nor penetrated anyone." He sounded annoyed. "Does that answer your question? It really doesn't matter to me, nor should it matter to you. You're all I want."

"I guess not," said John, attempting to sound nonchalant. But his reptile brain rejoiced, wanting to claim what was his and his alone, to make his mark. To know that Sherlock would never again experience a touch that was not his.

Sherlock resumed his nuzzling, coming tantalisingly close to where John wanted him to be. The time spent mapping every square centimetre of skin had drawn him out as taut as a wire, that would snap with just the right pressure. John decided this was the point he had to take control.

Where as John was the one to follow blindly where Sherlock led, now it was his turn to lead, to deduce what was wanted and needed and desired, to send nerves singing, blood flowing with intent, hormones surging.

John was the teacher, the guide, leading Sherlock to new knowledge of the visceral, transforming his transport into a necessity rather than a means to an end. He experienced John with his senses directly, rather than using them as mere conduits of data.

Already close, hearts, minds and souls entwined, now they experienced the joining of the physical, as John firmly staked his claim. Physically joined, they clung to each other, their minds only on the here and now, reason abandoned in a wash of pleasure, a tidal wave of passion engulfing them. When they hit their peak, the crashed out together, both seeing stars exploding behind their eyes.

As they came down, melting into a post-coital haze, they remained entangled in each other, unmindful of physical reminder sticking to their skin. Gentle, lazy kisses were exchanged before John pulled away with a sigh.

"Shower?" he asked, running his hand through Sherlock's curls once more. He decided he would never tire of that, never tire of anything to do with Sherlock.

"As long as we shower together," replied the detective, lazily. "It does save water that way."  
>John laughed.<p>

"C'mon then you great, lanky git."

After the shower, they changed the sheets on the bed, dried off and got back into bed, though Sherlock brought his laptop in the room with him. John could see he was now energised, where he could feel himself being beckoned to the land of sleep. He lay down, resting his forehead against Sherlock's hip, listening to the rapid arpeggio rhythm of long, graceful fingers on the keyboard. He fell asleep eventually, hearing that rhythm in his dreams.

* * *

><p>"John, wake up!"<br>"Huh? What?" John opened his eyes blearily as Sherlock shook him.

"Case, John. Come on, get dressed, we need to go down to the Yard. Double murder. Most likely suspect has a seemingly airtight alibi. Lestrade reckons we could crack it. The game is on!"


End file.
